Lemons and Mistletoe
by imaniiebee
Summary: In which Draco writes his first letter to Santa Claus. Contains established male!male relationship and potentially bad words. Caution: holiday fluff.


**Disclaimer: Santa Baby, there's just one little thing I really need, the deed, to Harry Potter and Co... What? I haven't been good enough this year? I guess I still don't own Harry Potter or any associated intellectual properties, then. Maybe next year. **

**Warnings: vaguely fluffy, established male!male relationship.  
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**This is just my little holiday inspired fic. Not a complex plot or anything, but I haven't put anything out in a while, not since my muse stranded me in the cold, dark, lonely world of Writer's Block. Anyways, enjoy! Or whatever.**

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><p>Dear Muggle Gift Giver:<p>

I am, as I'm sure you know, Draco Lucius Malfoy, Pureblood. Millie and Theo, Slytherin's resident Muggle experts, just explained to us all how the Muggle children celebrate Yule. Rather plebeian, if you ask me, but the poor things surely have to amuse themselves somehow… their lives are rather pathetic.

Anywho, Millie says that the small children of Muggleland write letters to the Shanty Claws, and if they were exceptionally well behaved that year, then the geezer brings them toys. They solicit their items of choice by writing letters to him, demanding various doodads.

So Shanty Claws. I realize I haven't been too terribly good this year. I broke Potter's nose on the train. Granted, the git deserved it, sneaking up on me and spying in my compartment like he did. But I suppose it wasn't the nicest thing. But I left the firsties alone, didn't I, and have yet to torment the Weasels about their unfortunate amount of facial deformities. So, the way I see it, I've been decent enough, eh?

What I require is a boyfriend. I am not particular, but I am rather partial to dark hair. Preferably just brushing his shoulders, curling up ever so delicately at the end. I don't really care about tidiness, in fact, it should rather resemble a bird's nest. I am rather partial to tan skin that seems to glow from the inside, and absolutely love piercing green eyes. Especially the ones with an uncanny resemblance to emeralds. Or the killing curse. I seem to have developed a liking for scars, so if you could include that also, that's just be peachy.

He should smell like lemons and grass and courage… erm I mean man-musk. He should be proficient at Quidditch. I wouldn't even mind if he happened to beat me every time we played. I should think he'd be a Gryffindor, simply because mother always says opposites attract. And he should have a smile that lights up the whole room and makes you feel like the most important person in the world when he shines on you. If he shines it on you.

Also, I would like for Harry Potter to fall flat on his stupid face. I _abhor_ him.

Much Love,

Draco

oOoOoOo

"What's that there Dray?" Draco whipped around, pale hair stinging as it snapped across his face, to see his husband, Harry Potter, faded parchment still clutched in his hand.

"Oh it's nothing. Just my first letter to Shanty Claws. I had forgotten it even existed, to be perfectly honest," Draco replied. He looked back down at the paper in his hand. Hm… lemons and grass. Harry smelled like lemons and grass. And man-musk

"It's Santa Claus, Dray. Santa. Honestly, you'd think after eight years of writing him letters you'd learn his name." Harry laughed, still genuinely amused at his husband's limited Muggle understanding.

Draco sniffed in reply, boldly ignoring his pink-tinged cheeks, and turning back to face his desk. "I prefer Shanty. Santa is so… plebeian, Harry. Shanty has a much more dignified sound to it."

Harry rolled his eyes, strolling across the room to wrap his arms around Draco's waist and rest his chin on his shoulder. "So," he whispered, placing a gentle kiss right behind the blonde's earlobe. "Can I see it?" Draco shivered, leaning back into the firm chest behind him. Harry always knew just where to place those sinfully plump lips in order to gain his compliance. He sighed, and could feel Harry's lips curl into a smile against his neck.

"Absolutely not, Potter."

oOoOoOo

Harry walked into the kitchen, pausing at the strange sight before him. There was Draco Malfoy, apron clad, slaving over a hot stove, with no less than six cookbooks open all over the counters. Harry couldn't , for the life of him, remember a time in their 8-year long relationship that he'd seen the blond in a kitchen, let alone _working _in it. He smiled, remembering what he had gone searching for the blond for.

"I read your letter," he said, deciding that the straightforward approach would be the best option in this situation. After all, they did always say it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission. He plowed on before the ex-Slytherin had time to scrap the dough off his hands and reach for his wand.

"It was really cute. Reminds me of the one I wrote that year, except I was well aware that it was you I was longing for." Draco slowly turned to face his husband, his cheeks a more delightful red than the ribbon adorning his "Kiss the Cook, it's Christmas" apron. His eyes were wide and disbelieving, and Harry decided to continue, since the only thing that mouth was doing was posing to catch flies.

"I asked Santa to place you and me under the mistletoe, so that I could get a chance to do what I had been longing for since fourth year." Harry grinned even wider, waiting for the blond to catch up.

"Oh but... but that's how... Oh! OH! So we both got what we wished for then, huh?" Draco drew closer to his husband, wrapping his arms around the slightly taller man's neck. He placed the lightest of kisses on his lips, grinning when the man groaned and leaned in to deepen the kiss. The blond obliged, slipping his hands into the mess of hair follicles that he loved so much. He smeared them around and then pulled back to admire his handiwork, smirking as realization dawned on Harry's face. There, perfectly blended into raven locks, was an amalgamation of flour, eggs, sugar, and chocolate chips, known to the commoners as cookie dough.

"Perhaps now you'll remember not the go through my things without permission, twat."

And as he ran through the house, just inches ahead of his laughing husband's outstretched hands, he couldn't help but think that there had to be some stock in Shanty Claws after all.

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><p><strong>Yay! Happy Holidays all! Review! <strong>


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